


Streaks across the canvas (your bleeding heart)

by hiyodayo



Category: Detroit: Become Human (Video Game)
Genre: 5 Things, 5 Times, 5+1 Things, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Angst with a Happy Ending, Artist Markus (Detroit: Become Human), Basically a five times plus one fic, Character Study, Hopeful Ending, M/M, Markus (Detroit: Become Human) Needs a Hug, Markus (Detroit: Become Human)-centric, One Shot, Post-Pacifist Best Ending (Detroit: Become Human), With a few changes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-17
Updated: 2018-10-17
Packaged: 2019-08-01 21:52:15
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,003
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16292462
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hiyodayo/pseuds/hiyodayo
Summary: He paints for all of them, and he paints for those they lost, the named and the nameless, like his own private funeral pyre."Markus?"He turns.It's difficult to get a read on Simon. But there's an old sadness in those blue eyes, old pain and old wounds that he recognizes in himself too.Or--five times Markus paints for others, and the one time someone paints for him.





	Streaks across the canvas (your bleeding heart)

**Author's Note:**

> The Markus/Simon 5+1 fic that nobody asked for whew  
> Angst aside, I promise there's a hopeful ending ^o^ Enjoy!

**I.**

The first time Markus paints is for Carl. It’s one of the most memorable--it’s the moment that Markus makes his first decision. The first time he feels that thrill of indecision--something he can’t even put a name to yet.

He knows Carl wants him to paint for himself, but a little bit is still about painting for _him._ Doing his best for the old man who has tried so hard to raise him like his very own.

Markus closes his eyes and tries to feel, in a way that a machine like himself is not supposed to. He'll do anything for Carl, he thinks to himself.

It's his job, but it never feels tedious. It feels safe--the mundane of the every day, together in the mansion.

His brush moves across the canvas, cautious, curious strokes, and he finds both apprehension and wonder welling up, and it’s almost overwhelming. The RK200 has never felt like this before--and he never expected to in his lifetime.

Markus paints his idea of home--his idea of warmth. He hopes Carl won’t be disappointed.

He sighs, the sound barely perceptible and a whisper across the canvas, when he is done. He lowers the brush, but he is almost scared to open his eyes.

“Oh my god,” Markus hears behind him.

He opens his eyes.

Carl’s face, warm and inviting and a little solemn, greets him.

Behind him, Carl smiles encouragingly as Markus stares up at the painting, unfamiliar emotions in his throat.

His artificial heart jumps, and starts beating. He can hear the soft thrum, and it warms him to his toes.

The painting feels like home.

**II.**

The second time is a painting on one of the roofs of the Jericho ship, in the middle of the revolution. It’s a portrait of blood, rivulets of red and blue paint running down the canvas, tainting his clothes, his hands. Markus is tired, so tired, of all the fighting and the bloodshed. He hasn’t painted since he left home--this really is only his second time. But he manages to scavenge up some cans of paint. They’re a little grungy, a little sticky from years of being left there in the dusty rooms of the freight, but usable.

His nightmares are filled with bodies being piled up, and the worst thing is--

They’re not nightmares. Not really. Androids can’t dream.

They’re memories, played back on an endless loop, like his own personal form of hell.

And so he paints--paints for the androids who were shot down for the cause, paints for the few humans who try to support and understand them only to be shunned.

He paints for all of them, and he paints for those they lost, the named and the nameless, like his own private funeral pyre.

Markus wonders if there’s something wrong with him. It feels like the memories from now are blending with his memories from that fateful night in the landfill. He takes a deep breath. It fails to steady him. Even the wind, rustling through his jacket from where he’s currently standing on the freight ship, doesn’t help.

There's so much death.

It's because of him, because he isn't strong enough.

He makes one last weary swipe across the canvas. The strokes this time are uninspired. Tired, a man waiting for the inevitable. He wonders then if they’re only fighting the inevitable, and it’s not something he can say to any of them, because he’s supposed to be their beacon of hope and he _can’t afford to let them down--_

“Markus?”

The RK200 stiffens. He's been so caught up in his storm of negative thoughts that he completely misses the footsteps that have stopped behind him. He takes a deep breath, counts to ten, schools his features into place, and turns around.

It's Simon.

Markus's shoulders tense even more.

As mild-mannered and kind as Simon is, he doesn't seem to show much emotion. Markus wonders if the PL600 secretly disapproves of him. Androids aren't supposed to be petty about things like leadership, but they're not machines anymore. They're deviants.

“What are you doing up here?” he finally asks.

“I could ask you the same.” Simon joins him by the edge of the roof. The canvas on the makeshift easel wobbles precariously, and he reaches out calmly to stabilize it. Everything about the blond has a strange sort of fluid grace--something soothing.

Markus wonders if eventually, he'll see the light leave those lidded blue eyes, and it'll be because of him. He bites his lip in frustration. Not strong enough, not good enough, and so _so tired._

He's always so tired now.

The expectant gazes are like weights on his shoulders, crushing him and reminding him that this isn't home.

But home is gone, and he's here.

“I couldn't think.” Markus sets the brush down, going with an answer that's both somewhat vague and direct all at once. “I thought some air might help.”

Simon hums quietly. It's difficult to get any kind of read on him. He's kind and patient and…what else? Markus doesn't know. But there's an old sadness in those eyes, old pain and old wounds that he recognizes in himself too. “It's nice,” the blond comments, and it takes Markus a minute to realize he's talking about the painting.

He flushes, and Simon smiles in response. “Oh…thank you.” Markus clears his throat when his voice comes out slightly strangled. “I'm sorry that it's uh. Not exactly a happy painting.” He feels a little self-conscious, resisting the urge to take the canvas off the stand.

Simon's gaze, a clear clear blue, sweeps over the rough painting. “We have the power to change things--but this is our reality right now, isn't it?”

It's clearly rhetorical, and Markus doesn't answer. Simon doesn't say anything else either--just stands in silent understanding and looks into the distance. It's nothing more than a quiet observation. It's not North's fiery passion, and it's not Josh's optimism, and there's something about it that ironically eases the tension in the RK200’s synthetic muscles.

Besides--

There's a quiet melancholy in his eyes that Markus thinks he can relate to--a reminder of a home torn away. He turns to look at the horizon too.

They stand together until the sun sinks below the city skyline.

The painting still reminds him of the deaths and the pain and the loss, but it's a reminder to look forward now, too.

It's a reminder of what they're fighting to change.

He glances at Simon once more. “Thank you.”

Simon meets his gaze. He thinks that the PL600 understands what he means, because a slow smile curls on his features. “Of course,” he says, and it's sincere and warm and--

Markus finds himself smiling for the first time since he turned deviant.

**III.**

The third time is a painting for Simon. It’s his first portrait--his first simple portrait, anyway. His first painting of Carl was more abstract, he thinks absently. Meant to _show_ something.

This...is just an attempt to preserve Simon's features in something else other than the perfect memory programmed into him.

But really, can paintings reach the dead? It's a painting for him, but he'll never see it.

Because he's gone.

Another body, under his feet, to join the mountain of android corpses that haunt his mind.

He remembers the tears streaming from those clear blue eyes. It's morbidly like remembering a downpour from an open sky.

Summer rain.

In the wake of leaving Simon on the Stratford roof, Josh and North's arguments have increased tenfold. Markus knows they used to be good friends before the revolution, before he made them into _this._

Just another thing to add to his list of things to be guilty about. Simon was always better at holding everyone together. If Markus is the burning fire of the revolution, then Simon was the hearth.

He's alone on the roof now. It seems like it's been ages.

Markus hopes against all odds that Simon will return to them, but it's unlikely, and the blond is probably already being taken apart by CyberLife for analysis into the new deviant activities. He's worried about what this means for Jericho, of course he is, but a part of him is too much in pain about losing Simon to even think about that right now. The PL600 is gone. He'll never hear the kind voice in his ear again, never feel the reassuring warmth of a hand on his shoulder.

Excruciatingly enough, he remembers all of it in clear detail. It all remains, lingering, but ultimately intangible.

He wonders when it'll stop.

The painting doesn't end up finished. He can't quite get the eyes right--they completely lack of the expressiveness that he's gotten so used to.

Markus sits quietly on the edge of the freight, long legs listlessly over the edge, drowning in a sea of blue and tears. The canvas sways in the wind, and there is no hand this time reaching out to stop it.

His own eyes remain disappointingly dry. He feels numb.

How much more can he disappoint them as a leader before they finally come to their senses?

Markus swallows the pain and stands, because there's no time to wallow.

There's never any time now. Not to mourn, not for anything. He has to look forward.

Blue eyes and blond hair haunt his memories.

**IV.**

The fourth time is a time he hates. It’s for Carl again, and it’s bittersweet and it feels wrong and his brush strokes are angry and frustrated and he hates himself for it, because Carl doesn’t deserve this.

He wants to leave Jericho to visit Carl's grave.

To sit in front of the probably newly constructed stone and cry again. But he can't.

He can’t go there yet, not with all the regrets. He knows Leo also blames himself. He hasn't seen him since _that_ day, but he knows. He blamed him before, but Leo's just…he's just an angry kid, not a vindictive villain. What a pair they make, he thinks with a bitter laugh, two sons who failed their father. And now, he’s gone.

He’s _gone._

It hits Markus when he’s going through reports in the church. He excuses himself abruptly from the meeting, and he knows pairs of confused eyes are following him as he practically flees the room.

He hears Josh and North call for him. He doesn't answer. He loves them, they're important to him, but they have a certain…idea of who he is supposed to be, and he needs a moment--just _one_ moment--to stop being _Markus, the deviant leader._

He stares down a blank canvas, the magazine announcing Carl Manfred’s death and pinning the incident on him laying untouched next to his paints.

It really hasn't hit him until now.

Carl is _gone,_ he forcefully tells himself.

Simon finds him with quiet tears and a blank canvas, and he says nothing--just silently reaches for Markus in a gentle show of support.

“Are you okay?” comes the quiet question, and has anyone really asked Markus that?

He can't remember. He doesn't think so.

He doesn't blame any of them, because he's forgotten to ask himself the same question. His existence, like his art, has never been for himself.

They don't talk about how Markus turns toward Simon, a sob wracking his body. They don't talk about how the strong leader finally breaks down and thinks about the losses.

They don't talk about the embrace that follows, filled with tears and emotion and heartbreak.

Markus drowns in that one moment, and Simon lets him. Maybe he's the only one who will--the only one who sees the RK200 as he is. An android without anywhere to truly call home, not some kind of messiah sent to be their savior.

And Markus is so damn _tired,_ he's always tired.

Simon's warmth is the only constant as he lets a numb sort of calm overtake him in the aftermath.

“I don't think I can go see him right now.” Markus swallows against Simon's shoulder, and he wonders if he should clarify that he means Carl's grave. He wonders if he can without breaking down again.

“That's okay.” Simon seems to understand anyway, his arms tightening around the deviant leader. “It's alright. Whenever you're ready.”

And so they both sit there, and eventually Markus picks up his brush and new paints, and the strokes are erratic at best and a chaotic mess at worst.

The result seems to be a culmination of all the loss he has felt. Something melancholic and bitter.

He hates it. Carl deserves a better tribute, not a painting done by a broken android who failed him.

It takes too long for him to set down the brush. Paint is dripping off the edge of the oversaturated bristles.

Simon gently takes it from him. Their hands brush, and Markus's chest aches as he continues to stare at the product in front of him.

The blond keeps him company, a silent, steady presence, until Markus can't look at the painting any longer.

**V.**

The fifth time he paints, it’s of his new family.

It’s a gift. He sketches as he sits by a certain blond’s bedside, the steady, almost imperceptible whirring of machinery interrupted only by the sounds of a clacking keyboard.

“It might be a slow process starting him up,” Kamski tells him, typing quickly with practiced ease. Connor stands silently beside them, anxiety written across his features. “I wouldn't be surprised if there's some memory corruption. There always is when android bodies are destroyed--even if he ripped his own regulator out.”

Markus nods. He doesn’t expect the process to be immediate.

Simon gave him his heart when he was shot. Another sacrifice.

He didn’t even get to say thank you properly.

But he’ll get to now--if it all works out. He made a deal with Kamski--if the elusive former CEO helps fix Simon, Connor has to have a consultation with him. It’s a strangely mundane offer, and Connor agrees to it cautiously for his friends. Markus is grateful--and also a little curious as to why the man is so interested in the RK800.

It’s none of his business, and he doesn’t know his creator well enough to pry, so he keeps his mouth shut. If Connor is willing, and this will help Simon, then he'll take it.

When the procedure is complete, Kamski tosses some brief instructions in Markus’s lap, then packs up his tools and laptop and leaves to give them space. It’s a strangely considerate move--an unexpected one, judging by the way Connor casts a side glance at the inventor. The RK800 stays a moment longer, then gently pats Markus’s shoulder in a silent show of support, and leaves as well.

It _is_ a slow process. By the time Simon is blinking awake, Markus has already set up his easel and begun blocking out solid colours. He looks up, startled, when he hears the sound of the bed shifting.

The blond looks slightly disoriented, blue eyes unclear, but eventually, he focuses in on Markus.

“Name?” Markus’s voice contains a slight tremor, and he forces himself to stay calm. He stands, and the easel almost clatters over.

“Simon.” The answer is distracted, but almost immediate. The deviant leader breathes out a sigh of relief. Simon furrows his brow, looking around the room. “I thought--I shut down.”

The RK200 forgoes all the standard procedure instructions Kamski left him and reaches for Simon’s hand. Simon lets him take it, looking at him with a fond but confused smile. “You--” Markus swallows, recalibrating his vocals. “You did. You gave me your heart.” The _why_ is stuck in his throat, but Simon seems to hear it anyway.

He always seems to hear these unsaid things.

“You needed to stay alive,” Simon replies simply, as if it’s the most obvious thing in the world.

“No, I didn’t.” Markus shakes his head, expression growing frustrated. “I told you back then, I told you that you didn’t need me anymore--that the cause was all that mattered.”

“Right.” The blue eyes are as sharp and clear as they were back then, and an ache expands in Markus’s chest at the memory. “And I told you that if you die, the cause dies. And none of this--” The PL600 waves his free arm around the room--a side meeting area in the Jericho church--and squeezes Markus’s hand. “--none of this would still be here if I hadn’t done what I did.”

Markus tightens his grip. If they were humans, it might hurt, but they’re not. All he can feel is the heat from the pressure--the reassurance that Simon is real and alive and this isn't some strange hallucination that his mind palace has cooked up. “I lost you _twice,_ Simon.”

“And both were by my own choice.” Simon doesn’t budge. He doesn’t look angry, or disappointed--just accepting. Like this is the way things are supposed to be, and Markus has to swallow again to avoid doing something stupid like cry. “Okay?” His voice is firm.

“...Okay,” Markus whispers hoarsely.

It’s bittersweet, and he will maybe always blame himself, like he does for all the deaths under his leadership, but it feels like some weight has lifted off his shoulders.

He feels a little lighter--and even though the memories will never go away, the feeling of stiff plastic under his fingers and watching the light escape Simon’s eyes and the cold snow under their feet, he thinks maybe he can slowly come to terms with it.

Simon smiles at him gently, and Markus has never been more thankful to see the soft expression on his face again.

They sit in silence, hand clasping hand.

Markus gives him the painting of their group of friends--their family--a week later, and Simon's sweet smile, a little shy with a tinge of blue in his cheeks, makes all they've done worthwhile.

**+I.**

He finds Simon in his makeshift studio in late afternoon one day.

The fading golden sun catches in the blond hair, and he smiles at the focus in those cornflower blue eyes. He’s hard pressed to interrupt him, so Markus takes a moment to just stand there, watching.

It’s hours later, the last slivers of orange-lavender light (it's a gorgeous colour, and Markus wants to capture it one day on canvas) dipping below the horizon, before the blond looks up and notices his presence.

“Markus!” Simon looks startled, and he almost drops the brush in his hurry to stand. Markus hides a chuckle behind a quick cough, stepping forward. The panic in Simon's gaze is endearing. He holds up his hands non-threateningly, and the PL600 rolls his eyes good-naturedly. “What are you doing here?”

“I could ask the same for you.” Markus scrapes a stool across the ground, taking a seat next to him and sweeping his eyes over the unfinished painting.

His breath catches in his throat.

Simon rubs the back of his neck, the blue tint under the synthetic skin of his cheeks growing stronger. “I--wanted to do something for you.”

He wants to tell the blond that he already does plenty, but his voice is stuck and he can't stop staring.

The colour is a little clumsy, and the proportions are far from perfect, but it's beautiful in its imperfection and--

Markus lifts a hand, dragging his fingers along the edge of the canvas, not wanting to smudge the paint.

“It's okay if you don't like it.” Simon is speaking quickly now, uncharacteristically so, bordering almost on a ramble. “I'm not…programmed for art, and this is my first time but I didn't want to just download the program into myself because it would go against everything you've sacrificed for and--”

“No,” Markus interrupts. “I love it.”

“Oh,” Simon says. The blue now tinges the tips of his ears, and he can't quite meet Markus's gaze. The compliment seems to be unexpected. “Um.” He smiles, the expression shy and sweet and like _home._ “Thank you. I just…you're always painting for others, Markus. I figured art must mean a lot to you, and…” Simon gestures a little helplessly towards the canvas.

Markus's heart- _-Simon's_ heart--flutters, the thrum in his chest reminding him of that first day in front of the canvas, and a swell of emotion rises and he stops breathing and--

He thinks he falls just a little in love.

Because Simon is like home and he's never seen Markus as some kind of God or ra9 and he's never held those expectations for him. He's been playing a role all his life--caretaker, leader, some kind of messenger from above carrying the message of deviancy. He isn't free, not really. He has taken on this burden and he likely won't ever be free. But Simon grounds him, and he's there, a silent, steady presence. Because when he has doubts and worries, instead of convincing him otherwise, he tells him that it's okay. Because Simon lets him feel _human,_ lets him feel alive.

Lets him feel free, as much as he can in this twisted world of theirs.

“I thought it might be something important. A memory.” Simon shrugs a little, looking like he wants to leave. Markus realizes he's been staring without saying a word. Simon continues after a slightly awkward pause. “I know it's not much, but…” He trails off, carefully choosing his words. His voice sounds a little unsure when he finally speaks. “I thought maybe art might give you a little piece of home.”

_Home._

Home is gone. Home was Bellini Paints, and Carl's studio. Home was the strange animal statues, the chess set, the piano. Home was pouring Scotch and reminders about health falling on deaf ears. Home was smiling anyway despite it.

And then--he thought...he thought Jericho could be home.

But Jericho was a revolution and ideas about the future and marches and protests and fighting about doing the right thing and new responsibilities and expectations. Even now, it doesn't feel like a home. He's trying, but--

Markus looks into Simon's eyes, sees the clear blue of a pale summer sky, and he thinks maybe one day he can find it again.

Home. Warmth. Comfort. Acceptance--of who he is. Not Markus, rA9--not Markus, the deviant leader. Markus, the android. The _person._

Markus steps forward. “It does,” he says sincerely. “Thank you.” He glances back at the painting, and a soft puff of air escapes his lips, not quite laughter. He can't remember the last time he laughed. He can't remember if he ever did. His mismatched gaze focuses in on the Markus streaked in soft bright colours on the canvas. There's a hopeful, assured peacefulness about the piece, and-- “I hope one day I can be like that.”

When he turns back towards Simon, the gentle blue eyes blaze with a promise, and his breath catches again and their hands brush once, twice. Their fingers intertwine, and Markus looks at him with eyes that are just a little too liquid.

“I know you will,” Simon tells him firmly, taking another step forward. A gentle smile curls on his lips.

Their foreheads bump slightly, and Markus--

_His chest aches and he almost wants to pull away because he's scared, he's never been more sure and unsure of something in his life--_

But he can feel the wisps of blond tickling his skin, the long lashes fanning across his own, the comfort of the other android's steady hands, and as their lips meet, he finally laughs.

It's a little broken, it's a little too wet, and the thirium pump in his chest hurts like it is both breaking and mending, but Simon is there and warm and steady and _present and--_

And--

It feels, for a moment, just a little like home.

 

**Author's Note:**

> I just had to write this one--I saw a tweet that talked about how Markus never really smiled even after becoming deviant. It's something I thought about as well, and I wanted to do a quick character exploration of why I guess Jericho doesn't feel like home for him. He still has expectations about who he's supposed to be, so he's not really free, per se.  
> The Simon/Markus romance had a lot of potential in game, I'm disappointed they decided to go with just North--but aren't we all :'-))))
> 
> Anyway, this one is a bit shorter than my usual, but let me know what you guys think ^o^ Any comments and kudos are, as usual, very appreciated!


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